takes one to know one
by nevermore199
Summary: Sometimes there were actually perks to being an idiot. One-shot, House x Thirteen. Post-ep for Last Resort.


She's still in the hospital, staring at the ceiling with bleary eyes and willing sleep to come, when she hears the door open.

She unconsciously holds her breath a little, wondering who it is. Kutner and Taub have both been by. Cameron has been by—a little surprising, since Thirteen isn't exactly friendly with her; but then again, it's Cameron. She's told Foreman to sign her up for the drug trial.

Then she hears the clacking of his cane on the floor, and she sighs.

He pulls up a chair and sits next to her bed. She turns to look at him. "Hey," she says.

He just stares, and the glint in his eye is familiar. It's the same intense glare he gave her every time she shot up a new drug, in that bright room with the gun.

For a long time, neither of them says anything. Completely silent, and she's torn between being grateful for the lack of noise and being miserable at the fact that now she can hear the replayed versions of the entire day—

_I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't want to die_

—all too clearly.

Eventually, he says, "You really are an idiot."

-

Eventually, she's discharged, with orders to "take it easy for awhile." She translates that to "take a day off work to sleep and then come back like nothing ever happened."

Only it did.

She isn't sure how she's feeling about it, yet. She feels slightly less inclined to go out and get wasted. Slightly less inclined to hook up with a random girl in a bar. Slightly less inclined to rot herself from the inside out.

-

(She really _doesn't_ want to die.)

-

On her first day back, she gets a hug from Kutner and cheerful welcome from Taub and Foreman.

House just says, "Look who it is! It's everyone's favorite martyr."

She rolls her eyes.

-

At lunch, she eats by herself. She wonders if Foreman expects her to eat with him, now that they're sharing in some fantastic drug trial experience.

She sees House and Wilson eating on the other side of the room, talking about something. She watches them for a moment.

She watches _him_ for a moment.

She still remembers that look he gave her—dark, forceful. Asking _what the hell do you think you're doing?_

(To tell the truth, she still isn't sure herself.)

It takes a split second too long for her to realize that he's staring back now.

With a little start, she looks down at her food.

-

Right before she's about to leave for the day, she goes to his office to deliver some test results. He accepts them quietly, and she turns to leave.

"When was the last time I called you an idiot?" he asks.

Her hand pauses on the door, and she half-turns, smiling faintly. "Two hours, thirty-seven minutes, and nineteen seconds ago."

"You're an idiot."

"But I'm alive."

He shrugs. "True."

She turns all the way around as he stands up from his desk, watching her. "Heard about that drug trial," he says.

She sighs. "Right."

"You look absolutely thrilled," he notes sarcastically.

"Right," she repeats.

"If you don't want to, then don't."

She lets out yet another sigh, more agitated this time. Her hand, still twisted behind her and attached to the doorknob, twitches.

"It's not going to do any good," she says. Her words feel almost _forced_—they are hard to get out, and yet she keeps going, because she feels the strange, insatiable need to _explain_, to make him understand, to understand herself. "It's just—it's a trial. It won't change anything."

He doesn't reply to that, only keeps his eyes on her. Eventually, it drags out another admission:

"I don't want to die," she says softly.

He nods a little. "Of course not."

-

The next day is a little more normal. She's falling back into routine. There is Foreman and talk of the drug trial, and she wants to avoid him but doesn't.

At the end, she's taking the elevator down when it stops, and guess who gets on?

"Howdy," he says on his way in. He hits a button with his cane. She sighs and leans against the wall.

"Hot date tonight?" he asks, one eye on her.

"What?"

"Is she a looker? Or are you skipping the girl-on-girl and just going straight for the meth?"

She's a little surprised, and doesn't hide it. It takes her a moment to realize that he's talking about _her_—or, rather, the _her_ of several weeks ago. The _her_ who came to work wasted and got caught shooting up IV fluids. She used to _be_ that person—and it's strange, but now she feels a distance from whoever that was, even though it's a short time that separates them.

"I'm going home," she says finally.

"Booooooring," he sings, drawing out the word.

"What are _you_ doing tonight?"

He pulls a face of mock indignation. "Aw. I'm hurt."

She smirks. "I'm sure you are."

The elevator opens. They both walk across the lobby, toward the door.

"So, what?" he continues. "You going celibate? Pledging to become drug-free? Born again in the eyes of the Lord Almighty?"

She raises an eyebrow at him. "How long did it take you to come up with that one?"

"I'll never tell."

She opens the hospital door, keeping her face carefully neutral as she glances back at him. "I just need a change."

"That's a shame," he says.

The look he gives her is unreadable.

-

They make it to the parking lot—past the lights on the sidewalk and enveloped in darkness—and then he shoves her against a car (she's not sure whose). His eyes are bright in the shadows, and she opens her mouth to talk but he doesn't let her say a word (he's not one to waste time).

His mouth is hot on hers, and pushing, hard. It takes her only the briefest moment before she's kissing him back, with a growl rising in her throat.

Suddenly he shoves her back again, harder, and she hits the car with enough force to really _hurt_, but she ignores it and presses closer, her hands grabbing at his jacket.

_Not enough._

-

"Idiot," he whispers in her ear.

It's heavy, heated, as they spill over the sheets, still half-connected at the mouth. She gives him a little moan as they fall back and it's more than she's ever given.

His hand slides between her legs, across her thighs (her jeans are gone and she can't quite recall when they disappeared) and he leans in and says it again.

_Idiot._

And suddenly she reaches for him, and she's pushing back now, harder, wrapping around him fast.

"So what does that make you?" she breathes.

-

Next day: she goes to get coffee and finds him there, watching. (Waiting? Unlikely. But too soon to tell.)

"Decaf tastes like crap," he tells her.

Her laugh is soft and swift.

"I think I kind of like being an idiot," she replies.

**

* * *

**

I saw "Last Resort" the other day, and it inspired me. I've been meaning to write House x Thirteen for a while now, anyway. It's not as near and dear to my heart as House x Cameron, admittedly. But it's still pretty fun. (Besides, I _**like**_** Thirteen.)**

**And that's all for today. Hope you all enjoyed!**


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